


Faintheart

by Royal_Ermine



Category: Braveheart (1995), Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Medieval, Bottom Steve Rogers, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Humor, Gay Bucky Barnes, Gay Steve Rogers, M/M, Non-Serum Steve Rogers/Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes | Shrinkyclinks, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Romantic Fluff, Scotland, Top Bucky Barnes, alternative universe
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-20
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2019-06-13 13:06:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,097
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15365313
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Royal_Ermine/pseuds/Royal_Ermine
Summary: This light-hearted parody of Mel Gibson’s “Braveheart” begs the question: were all medieval English Lords arrogant, misogynist heterosexuals? What if we slid a stealthy bit of stucky in there just to find out?





	Faintheart

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MissyPJ](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissyPJ/gifts).



> For MissyPJ, an artist of extraordinary talent. Here's an adventure story in grateful thanks for your own gift of adventure!

 

“You do understand you’ll never get out of this alive, don’t you?”

Steve suppressed an anguished sob as Bucky drew protective arms tightly around him.

-*-

He’d not wanted to take the position. His own father had forced him, using the non-too-subtle fact that he was the youngest son of the family as a propitious excuse. “Go north,” he’d ordered. “Take up King Edward’s offer. Make a name for yourself.”

He didn’t want to go north, it was cold and wet and his sickly under-developed body grew consumptive in the damp.  Besides, the natives hated them up there, and with good reason.

He didn’t want to take up King Edward’s offer. He was a bloody tyrant who could rescind that offer at any time. He changed his mind more often than he changed his lieutenants, whose dead bodies had a rather unfortunate habit of winding up pulped on the castle courtyard, having been summarily defenestrated from the upper storey windows.

Most of all, he didn’t want to make a name for himself.  That would involve drawing attention to himself, and his invert desires, which would doubtless shame him and the family for generations to come.

Nonetheless, obedience would content his father. He was a dutiful son. So he went.

It could have been worse. The handful of soldiers accompanying him were mere boys. They didn’t intimidate the local townsfolk who mostly laughed at their bumbling attempts to ‘enforce’ order. His decision to rebuild the ancient clan castle, rather than throw up some ugly wooden fort proved popular, in that it employed people from far and wide.  One soldier overheard a workman say that at least it gave them somewhere to shelter in the uncertain world they lived in. They may have hated him, but he respected them. They were right to seek shelter. He made an announcement to the effect that everyone in the town and surrounding villages was welcome within its protective battlements, should conflict break out.

This generous offer from their ‘master’ Lord Rogers, drew widespread praise, but he knew that nothing he said or did would ever be enough to save him. He knew that he was expendable and that he lacked both the determination of will and strength of courage necessary to defend himself. What he didn’t know was when, where and, most importantly, how the fatal blow would be struck.

Call him faintheart, but he really didn’t want to die in agony, butchered by some clumsy highlander’s battle-axe.

It was one of the local servants who’d tipped him the wink, making mention of the Irish mercenary’s unexpected arrival at the tavern a few days before. He’d slipped in with the guests for the forthcoming wedding, but his Gaelic betrayed the unmistakable lilt of a native from the Emerald Isle. He was almost as obvious an outsider as Steve himself.

How he had shuddered at the news. The Irish had a reputation for good soldiery. His clueless children in chainmail wouldn’t stand a chance against this single man. But in the same respect, if he was to be the instrument of Steve’s death, then at least it would be quick and clean.

It wasn’t difficult to initiate a private conversation. He’d been due at the nuptials anyway. He had to give his speech about “Claiming the right of ‘Prima Nocta’" to the disconsolate newlyweds. It played well with his troops, and he knew that the protestations of the townsfolk were mostly being staged for their benefit. He’d had to carry out this mock ritual of bridal kidnap several times before, and it came as something of a shock to the first couple when Steve had simply taken the bride to the second best bedroom in the castle, and then smuggled her husband in later for a honeymoon in a real bed, instead of whatever uncomfortable straw-filled sack they’d have to make do with for the rest of their lives.

However, before that point in the proceedings, ‘his Lordship’ had been treated to a flagon of ale and a choice selection of watery smiles. He wasn’t a greedy man; he was grateful for small mercies. At least they didn’t spit in his beer any more.

“So, you’re the Irishman I take it?”

The handsome young scoundrel with a wild mop of chestnut-brown hair, combed out in a centre parting, had flashed him a roguish grin.

“That I am, my Lord,”

“I’m not your Lord. I’m no-one’s Lord here really, but it’s very good of you to make the effort,” he’d sighed. “I’m Steve.”

“James, though my friends call me Bucky,” he’d said grasping Steve’s hand. “I hear you English don’t live long in these parts, Steve, and you really don’t strike me as the fighting kind.  I’m sorry for you, my little Lord.”

Steve had gulped. Was his end coming sooner that he’d expected?

“And are you the weapon intended to deliver me from them?” he’d asked, with a tremor of fear to his voice.

The Irishman had laughed with such bold abandon; Steve hadn’t been able to disguise a sly smile in return.

 

He’d asked Bucky back to the castle at the same time as he’d ‘officially’ abducted the blushing bride up to his second bedroom to await the imminent arrival of her new husband. Both accepted their ‘Lordship’s’ invitation with good grace.

 

“So, Bucky. What brings you to these parts, if you don’t mind my asking?”

Bucky had looked him up and down, as if deciding if he should be trusted. He’d pursed his lips. “I’m here to join the war.”

“I didn’t even know that there was one.”

“Not yet, but you can’t judge the mood of the country from this sleepy little town. There’s a rebellion stirring, centred around a commoner named William Wallace. He’s already taken a few garrisons around these parts. It won’t be long before the spark he lit burns this place to a cinder.”

“And you’re here to sell your services?”

“Goodness no, Steve. They couldn’t afford to pay me. I’m just here to kill Englishmen.”

Steve had smiled calmly. He should have been afraid, he’d supposed, but death seemed a pleasant, almost intimate prospect on the lips of a handsome soldier who wasn’t afraid to speak his mind.

“What if I paid you instead?”

“Regrettably you’re on the wrong side, my little Lord.”

“No,” he had explained. “You misunderstand. I meant what if I paid you to kill me?”

Bucky had looked appalled. “I wouldn’t kill a man in his own castle for no good reason.”

“But you have three good reasons:  It’s not my castle, I’m English and I’ll gladly pay you to do it. Rather a quick and painless end at your strong practiced hands than in a brawl where I might get battered to death, or worse.”

Bucky’s expression softened to sympathy. “I get the feeling you’re not the author of your own story here?”

“I never was, Bucky. I’ve always wanted to make other people happy, and their story has led me to this place. I really don’t have any choices left to make, except about how to die.”

Bucky had walked right up to Steve and stroked his hand tenderly. “I can’t kill you, Steve. You’re too gentle and fragile for this world; maybe you’ll wind up dead and maybe soon, but I swear to you I shan’t be the one to do it.”

He’d pressed a soft kiss to Steve’s baby-smooth cheek, raked his fingers through his golden hair, and just like that every shame of Steve’s secret invert nature had broken loose.

 

Perhaps it was the imminent expectation of death, perhaps it was the handsome face and strong sinewy body of that bold life-loving Irishman, but Steve couldn’t resist his attentions. He hadn’t felt shame, though he supposed he should have done, when he was conquered so completely by Bucky in every conceivable way. He hadn’t worried about how this would play out should the townsfolk ever have uncovered his shame. All he’d known was that he’d received real tenderness and love for the first time in his life, and from the only Celt north of the border who didn’t actively want to plunge a dagger through his heart.

 

From then on, they’d bedded together discretely, as soon as the servants had left the castle for the evening. They both knew it wouldn’t last, but that didn’t matter.

 

And then came the night when Steve had received the dispatch from Edward’s herald. He’d been ordered to assemble his little band of unseasoned troops to engage in a major battle.

He’d never expected to live long enough to actually die in battle, rather than at the hands of some skirmish come straight to his castle gate. But there was still plenty of time for that to happen; Stirling was over twenty miles away. There was only one thoroughfare in that direction he knew of, but he felt sure there would be a dozen others available to local clans planning an ambush.

 

-*-

And so he lay in the tight embrace of Bucky’s protective arms one last time.

“If I have to die,” he said. “Then at least you’ve given me a taste of what feeling alive is like, Bucky. I didn’t deserve your love, but you’ve made me so very happy. Thank you for …”

Bucky laid a finger on his lips. “Shhhh…, no need for these words Stevie,” he soothed. “You didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want to do. You’re a sweet, kind and breathtakingly beautiful young man, and I’m so very sorry that we were both in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

Steve sighed wistfully every time Bucky articulated that pet name he’d given him.

“I’ve ordered the whole garrison to come with me, Bucky, all fifteen of them.” He gave a hollow laugh at that. “Then I’ll turn the keys of this castle over to you. At least the townsfolk will have somewhere to shelter should the English ever return.”

“Oh they’ll return all right, there’s nothing surer than that,” Bucky replied with a rueful smile. “But we needn’t worry about the future here anymore. You’ve done your best, Stevie. The townsfolk think you’re more to be pitied than blamed; perhaps the clans will think the same on your journey from here to the battlefield.”

Steve sat up in bed. “Couldn’t you just…” he faltered, before breaking down in tears.

“Couldn’t I just what, Stevie?” Bucky asked, tilting Steve’s head back up with his thumb.

“Couldn’t you just make love to me one last time, and then kill me? I don’t want to be dismembered out there,” he pleaded.

Tears pricked the back of Bucky’s eyes as he shook his head.

“You know I could never hurt you, Stevie. Besides, if you’re discovered dead in your bedchamber, your troops will be forced to retaliate. No doubt they wouldn’t last long, even against the townsfolk, but they’d destroy every shred of goodwill you’ve fostered. And remember, I’m an outsider in these parts too. It’s just possible the townsfolk might use me as a scapegoat for the troops to execute.”

Steve held his hands to his cheeks in horror. “Dear God, you’re right Bucky. What was I thinking? I’m being so selfish.”

“You’re the least selfish Englishman in Scotland; probably in England too if we’re honest,” said Bucky. “You’re just scared, that’s all. I can’t protect you where you’re going, my Stevie, but I’m more than happy to make love to you one last time, if that’s what you’d like?”

Steve nodded meekly “Please do it gently, my love, for old time’s sake?”

Bucky grinned back, pressing his lips to Steve’s forehead and murmuring against the skin, “I wouldn’t have it any other way..”

 

And Bucky had been right. He could almost feel the waves of pity as he clopped through the town on his scrawny white mare. A few townsfolk even cried “God bless you” to him as he led the troops away. That affected him more than anything. Not even his own father had blessed him, when he’d been ordered up there to conquer and kill, but this benediction before he charged into what was surely a futile battle made the sacrifice almost seem worthwhile.

Bucky had been right about the journey too. The clansmen weren’t even subtle about knowing their route. One of them had even pointed him in the right direction when he’d managed to get his men hopelessly lost in a forest. His life was being spared, but he wasn’t entirely sure if that was a blessing or a curse, as he grew closer to Stirling.

In one village along the way he’d witnessed his countrymen’s hateful handiwork; virtually the whole population brutally massacred. Two of his troops had begged him to stop and turn back at the sight of it, but he knew such an action was no option for a nobleman, even one as ignoble as he. Instead he offered them pardon if they wished to shed their uniforms and make a break for the border. He meant it sincerely, but none of them accepted his invitation.

Finally they reached their destination. The section officer had assigned his troops to the infantry ranks and himself to protecting the archers. That seemed to make sense, the archers were just as skinny and weak and he was, and his feeble horse would never have stood up to a charge against the enemy.

The evening before the battle passed peacefully enough. There was ample food and decent enough wine to be had. At least it made him miss the reassuring arms of Bucky a little less on what was surely the last night of his life here on earth.

Steve had expected to be woken at the first signs of dawn, but he had never been in a battle before, and he wasn’t aware that noblemen were meant to have the self-discipline to rouse themselves. So it was that he found himself cursing loudly, already late for battle orders and desperately trying to locate his armour, which had unaccountably gone missing from the tent as he slept. Unless of course he’d lost it himself; the night before was a still a haze, after all. In the event it probably didn’t matter anyway; he could never have fitted it to himself without a squire’s assistance, and the battle wasn’t exactly going to wait for him.

 

The archers were assigned to a small hillock overlooking the battlefield with protective wooded groves on either side. Someone with a better knowledge of strategy than him must have made that decision. It certainly looked secure enough. He raised his sword and cried out patriotically along with the rest when the time for cheering came, at least feeling comfortable in his loose-fitting tunic, and confident that the main focus of the fighting was far away.

The bowmen loosed their arrows on the flag signals, but the battle itself was so distant that Steve couldn’t see if they were having any effect at all. He saw the heavy horses charge, and then the troops. He sat alone on his delicate little mare suddenly feeling very exposed with the company of archers, a feeling abruptly intensified when the entire Scottish cavalry suddenly thundered over the hill behind their position, dashing headlong towards them.

The archers ran in all directions screaming. Steve sallied forth as bravely as he could towards the enemy, but inevitably his courage failed him. He slowed to a trot and screwed his eyes shut at the deafening sound of their approach. Suddenly, he felt the reins of his bridle being wrenched away to one side. His horse stumbled blindly amongst tree roots as he sailed out of the saddle into an untidy heap on the forest floor.

He stared up at an enemy cavalryman. This was it. Steve crossed himself and averted his eyes to the side so he didn’t have to see the death blow. Instead he saw a decapitated body laid out beside him…wearing his armour.

“What the…” he scrabbled away from the corpse in terror.

“Shhhh Stevie,” whispered a familiar voice above him.

“Bucky?”

“I had to get you away, my little Lord. Your battle is lost.”

Steve gulped and nodded as Bucky dismounted and patted him down gently, checking for injuries.

“No hurts?”

“No, thank God, but what about this poor fellow?”

Bucky flashed another roguish grin. “Just a random body I collected from the battlefield. If anyone comes looking, they’ll find enough to identify you to the English.”

“But how did you even get my armour?”

Bucky chuckled deeply, “I know you better than you know yourself, Stevie. On the eve of battle you were certain to chase down as much wine as you could. Given the snoring you were sending up to when I crept in to ‘borrow’ your livery, I’m pretty sure a whole cavalry charge could have ploughed through your tent last night and you wouldn’t have heard a thing.”

 

Steve knit his brows together. “I understand how this happened, but I don’t understand why. I’m as good as dead anyway. If the Scottish troops capture me, than I’m going to make a poor ransom; my father won’t want me back. And if I escape to England they’ll most likely hang me as a traitor.”

“You still don’t get it, do you Stevie.” Bucky smiled sweetly, combing a hand through Steve’s golden hair. “I don’t want the Scottish to have you. I don’t want the English to have you. I want to have you all to myself, my lovely little Lord.”

Bucky emphasised this with a gentle kiss to Steve’s lips.

“Bucky, you had me the moment you saw me. I’ll do anything you ask me to, you know that,” sighed Steve, candidly.

Bucky took hold of Steve’s hand and smiled. “If you want me to help write a happy ending to your story, my love, then we’d best get going. The Scottish troops will search the forest for stragglers soon enough.”

Bucky helped Steve to his horse, and deftly mounted his own.

“How are your language skills, Stevie?” he asked, as they wound their way through the grove

“I learned my French and Latin well enough as a boy,” Steve shrugged. “Why do you ask?”

“You think you could learn Gaelic if I taught you?”

Steve blushed shyly, before admitting “Anything that comes from your tongue, I could probably pick up.”

Bucky roared like the delighted rogue that he was, at those words.

“To Ireland then, my little Lord.” he declared, as they galloped away together.

 

The end.

 


End file.
